


Distractions

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Cozy, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4568409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gloomy night at the Hanged Man has Hawke bored as Varric tries to work on his latest book, with varying success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mannelig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mannelig/gifts).



The inn sign won’t stop banging in the wind, but now that the wine’s looking a damn sight lower than it was when they got up here the noise is hardly bothering her at all any more.

Hawke leans against the window sill, the pane open just enough to smell the rain hammering away outside.

“Still stormin’ out there,” she hums, dragging a bare foot idly off the floor. 

“Mmm, I noticed,” Varric answers.

She doesn’t turn around, peering instead through the glass. There’s just dark out there now. Thick, heavy, nothing. But tonight, in the inn, with the fire flicking playfully in the hearth on the northern wall, wine warm in her stomach and sweet on her tongue, it feels comforting, cozy even, to have that big heavy dark settled in around them.

“Got dark,” she adds.

“Noticed that too,” Varric returns. He obviously isn’t paying attention, still bent over those pages most-like. 

“Very observant,” she continues. Her tongue has that nice loose feeling under the wine. Well. Looser than usual. “That a writer thing? All that very keen observing?”

“Mmm,” Varric hums.

He isn’t listening. Again. 

Hawke turns. A little too fast. She manages to catch the window sill under her hand and not slip right onto the floor. 

She frowns at the back of Varric’s head. He’s sitting at the little desk to the right of the hearth, the steady familiar sound of a scratching pen continuing without pause. One of his hands taps idly on the table next to the clean pages. She can’t help watching it for a moment. Good hands. Smart. Too smart for their own damn good.

She leaves her wine on the window sill, taking a few steps to cross the room to stand behind him. 

“I’m bored,” she says.

“That’s nice.”

She narrows her eyes. Carefully she hooks a finger on the back of the chair and gives it a little tug.

The chair tilts back sharply. Varric’s arms impulsively fly out to either side as he lets out a short yelp. 

She holds the chair as he gathers himself again, chuckling lightly under her breath. “Careful, don’t want to betray that calm collected exterior.”

“It’s not my fault,” he grumbles, letting his head lean back to glare up at her, eyes bright as usual, “dwarves have this thing about keeping both feet on the ground.”

“Well fine, if it’s a cultural thing.” She lets the chair fall back into place, but leans forward with it, snaking her arms down around his shoulders and letting her chin rest on the top of his head.

He smells nice. As usual. Leather, lingering with the scent of that oil he uses to keep Bianca smooth, and something else, something a bit like where cities bump up against the sea.

“You’re not going to stop being a pain, are you?” he asks.

“ _Pain_ , excuse you sir, I am a _delight_.”

Varric chuckles. She can feel his chest move with the sound under her arms. It’s a nice feeling, familiar, and it only makes the wine in her veins and the fire at her back feel even more comfortable.

“You’re not supposed to let me get bored. That’s what you’re for,” she insists lazily, letting her hand trace the line of his opened collar.

“Well, unfortunately for you the readers of Thedas think I’m good for a bit more than keeping you amused.”

“They just don’t know how amusing you can be,” she grins. 

She can feel him smile, even if she can’t see it. “Their loss.”

She gazes down, eyes scanning the pages idly. “What’s this?”

“This, Hawke, is what we call _writing_. It takes these thin sheets of ‘Paper’, and this sharp thing we call a ‘Pen’, and all it takes is not being tormented by mages with dangerously short attention spans.”

“You’re doing a new book?” she continues unfazed.

Varric sighs. “Yes. For the fourth time. I am doing a new book.”

She leans closer, peering down to see more clearly, pressing her chest against the back of his head as she does. She can’t help but notice he eases back to meet the cushion of her breasts, even if it is just noticeable.

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, the usual.”

“Very descriptive. I see why you’re so popular.”

He taps his finger a few more times then lets his pen rest back on the table, moving his hand to warp around where her wrist lies against his chest. His thumb start to trace the inner line of her wrist with a firm, calm pressure. 

“What do you think it should be about?”

Mmm, more like it. She can’t help the little spark of interest that catches against that invitation. “Something _huge_.”

“What sort of something?” He moves his thumb down to her palm, massaging the muscles there, the callouses that always build up around the staff grips. 

“Everything,” she continues lazily, “everything should be huge. Gargantuan. Exceptional. Big monsters and big personalities and great hulking plots that blow the cover right off the damn thing.”

“Mmm, don’t know if I can fit all that into something as little as a book.”

“And here I thought I was dealing with a Serious Author. Least that’s what is says on the book-jackets…”

“Alright, alright - what else do you want in this bloated book?”

She considers, sliding a hand across his chest, idly exploring whatever contours or lines pass under it. 

“Monsters are always good. Ones that no one thinks are real, but then hey, look at that, here they are again. And there’s that one mage, with enough guts to stare them down. That’s classic stuff right there. Can never go wrong with the classics.”

“Would have thought you’d be tired of that sort of cliche by now.”

“Shockingly no,” she says, “guess that’s why they pay me the good coin.”

“You know,” Varric hums. His voice is getting lower. She can’t help grinning. It always gets lower when she’s succeeding in her distractions. “You’re not the only one who has ideas about this new one…”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so.” He’s turned her hand over in both of his, opening her palm and pressing in deep and long, which after the workout that hand got today feels pretty fucking perfect.

“Who else?”

“Oh, everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“That’s right.”

“You must be cleaning crow shit off your shoulders all damn day if that’s the case.”

“The others,” he clarifies, “Daisy, Rivaini, Broody, Blondie…”

“Aren’t you popular?”

“Oh very,” he smiles. He kisses the inside of her hand once. It’s warm, and slower than it might have been if she wasn’t already winning this battle. 

“What are their obviously inferior suggestions?”

“Not too bad, actually. I must be rubbing off on all of you.”

“Come on, spill.”

“How about I spill and you can guess who’s is who’s?”

“Mmm, slightly better than boring.”

“Good enough,” he sighs, and she can feel the warmth of his breath curling around her fingers. “Alright, first, how about the erotic adventures of the wandering minstrel and all the comical mishaps that—“

“Too easy. I can practically hear Isabella’s earnings clinking. What’s next?”

“Well, we had a proposed cautionary tale of a mage—“

“Anders.”

“— who becomes trapped behind the veil due to his own hubris.”

“Fenris.”

“Nice catch.”

“What was Anders’?”

Varric’s fingers trace hers, head nestling back against her comfortably. “A bird who’s told it can’t use it’s wings or it will die, and then one day it jumps, and it flies.”

“And then what?” she murmurs quietly.

Varric stares down at her hand. “It dies.”

“Right… well, guess you can keep that one stashed away.”

Varric frowns. “Well away, hopefully.”

“What about Merrill?”

She can hear his tone brighten. “Elvish love story, something old and haunting, shockingly. She says there’s too many stories that no one knows, that they deserve to be told with a new voice.”

“That’s a nice comfy burden for you.”

Varric snorts. “My thinking exactly. Hey—” he starts suddenly, twisting in the seat, voice gruff, “come here.”

She smiles down at him. “Come where?”

His large hands open against her hips, easing her down into his lap. “Here.”

She settles in easily. He’s always far too easy to settle into. 

Hawke lets her arms hang on his shoulder still, inching her hips up and closer to his. “What about you?”

He’s looking at his hands on her waist, watching his fingers trace where her blouse tucks into her breeches. “What about me?”

“What do you want to write?”

He keeps his gaze down, tone lower and closer than before. “I had one idea.”

“That so?”

“I don’t know if anyone will buy it though? It’s a bit far-fetched.”

His hands slide higher, thumbs just tracing the under curve her her breasts. She can tell her eyes are getting heavy, mouth slipping open on its own as her hips inch even closer. “Tell me.”

“A dwarf who wanders around cities looking for stories, and ends up finding a mage too stupid to stop causing them.”

She feels herself smile. “That is a stretch. Mages stay out of trouble. And dwarves don’t like the city. You should know that. Worldly man such as yourself.”

“Like I said,” he leans in closer, breathing her in, “totally unrealistic. Not nearly as good as the Huge Everything concept.”

She tilts her head down, catching his lips once, teasingly. He’s warm, and tastes like the spices on the wine. His hands fold comfortable and wide around her back. The rain patters against the window, sign still swinging rhythmically outside. She pulls back. “Just goes to show, we can’t all be so naturally talented.” 

Varric smiles, already leaning in again. “No. We certainly can’t.”


End file.
